Temptation
by Evie Warner
Summary: Poison in your veins doesn't always promise death. Silver knew all too well how to suffer, yet live.


**Author's Note:** It's a day late and ended up MUCH longer than I originally intended, but it's done! For anyone wondering, this is Stalkershipping. No idea what that is? Then I'm going to assume you've never read the fic "Collateral Damage" or its sequel "Playing with Fire." But if you'd like to continue reading, regardless, then by all means, enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Pokémon, nor do I own Cyan. :P

**Dedication:** This one is for you **Xx-Synthetic-Cyanide-xX**. It's my turn to drag Silver through hell, yet this isn't nearly as bad at what you put him through. Go figure.

* * *

**Temptation**

xxx

It's all your fault, you know.

Back when you had been left alone, abandoned to fend for yourself in a world you barely understood, you had made a vow. Love is a weakness; when you didn't love another, pain didn't exist. And so it was simple. Never love, never hurt. It was all so straight forward.

"Oh, you were so naïve … "

**XxXxX**

You tried to wean yourself back into independence, but after a taste of companionship, even such a meager one, you're hopelessly trapped.

Kanto is foreign to you now; a land ridden with memories you'd rather forget. They happened so long ago you'd doubt their existence if not for the scars they left. The only option is Johto – Hoenn is too warm and bright, Sinnoh too cold and rustic, and Unova too far from the one place you could call home.

The first months are simple and strictly routine. Work nine-to-five in Goldenrod's Department Store, occasionally sate the urge to battle any random passerby, remain as physically distant from the thriving night life as possible, and leave as little free time as possible to think.

New life, new rules. You earn enough to pay the rent, feel the interest in battling fading with each day, and communicate as little as possible with whomever you happen to pass.

It had all been so simple.

**XxXxX**

It started with Crystal and a vase full of red roses.

You were "volunteered" to go and retrieve the Valentine's Day delivery from the local florist, but you don't complain. It's petty work and slightly annoying, but the better alternative to dealing with the rowdy shoppers angling for half-price candy.

A minor diversion from the routine you've acquainted yourself with, though nothing glaring enough to agitate you. But when you open the door and step inside, the small bell tingling overhead, a jolt of nostalgia assaults you like a knife in your gut.

"Silver – is that you?"

You don't have the time to conjure up a blatant lie before she's right in front of you to claim confirmation, and insisting the two of you catch up sometime. She sounds cheery and all around upbeat, but you can sense the bitterness lingering in her tone, the annoyance that you left without so much as a word of goodbye. But if she truly were angry, she wouldn't have bothered to put on a façade of joy at seeing you again.

"Where have you _been_, Silver? I tried calling you but the number was invalid – "

"Yes, I got a new one. I didn't update my contacts."

It's the truth, but from the scowl that contorts her face, you know she'd have preferred a lie. "You promised you would keep in touch. It's like you _want_ to cut me and Gold out of your life. Have you seen him lately? You hurt him when you left, you know that?"

Should that snippet of gossip intrigue you? There is something that spurs within you, but your expertise has always been suppressing emotions, not identifying them.

"Call him; make plans to meet up. You know I will hold this to you – I know where you live now, so don't think I won't find you!" She snatches your pokégear from your pocket with speed and grace to rival a Sneasel, exchanging numbers before you can comprehend what is happening. "Just _try_ and cut me out again, Silver. I dare you."

**XxXxX**

You wanted to run and escape while you had the chance. But the universe deterred that it wasn't meant to be. Even as you deleted her messages and ignored her calls, adamant on keeping her from clawing her way back into your life, you knew that it was pointless. Yet your pride wouldn't let you give in.

She'll find you, and you know that. To lessen the damage of her fury, you have a bundle of excuses laid out in your mind, just in case you should ever cross her path unexpectedly:

"Work has been taking up all of my time."

"I don't really check my pokégear except for emergencies."

"I have been travelling. That's why I left. I need to clear my mind before I come back."

"I've been training a lot recently. Sometimes I lose track of time and spend every free moment I have out in the wilderness."

They aren't technically lies, but that last one is full-out false. Training fails to grasp your interest. It carries a tinge of nostalgia from the days spent on the road, and that feeling has always been unwelcome to you. It had always been about training and travelling because you _had_ to get stronger, you _had_ to keep going to bring down that piece of trash organization. Giving up was unthinkable. But now there is no motivation to keep you going, nothing to make battling a necessity or even a rarely touched upon hobby.

You sigh heavily, the wear of the day beginning to weigh down upon you. The pokéball in your hand, the one that contains Sneasel, is familiar, but lacking nostalgia. You welcome that feeling. But gone are the days you would grasp that pokéball and yearn to call her out to battle. Now … there is nothing.

You could try to force the issue, but why bother attempting to rekindle a long deceased interest?

But the thought still grasps you – the temptation of _trying_, even if it means failure – as someone walks past, a rookie Trainer with a terrible choice of starter Pokémon trotting beside him. A Rattata, of all things – honestly, it was like the kid's parents _wanted_ him to get killed.

You _could_ try, but there is no point. Clipping the pokéball back on to your belt, you stand up straight and turn around, heading back to a cramped apartment and a routine life.

**XxXxX**

As expected, life goes on as it always does – minus the constant and increasingly frustrated messages from that blue-haired menace. This day brings one more minor diversion as the Manager calls you over to the counter just as you start your shift.

"Silver, you're early today; your shift doesn't start for another half an hour. But seeing as you're here, I don't suppose you would mind taking Cyan to the stockroom to start sorting out the delivery, could you? It's his second day here and I want him to know the basics."

When you glance at the person next to her, the person named Cyan, your heart briefly stutters in shock and mild panic before a single rational thought soothes it.

That person … the resemblance is almost uncanny, especially when it has been months – years? – since you last saw his apparent doppelganger. He is roughly your age, though likely a few years older, with hair shorter and a tad spikier than you'd have thought HIM to have. But those eyes are what set them apart; instead of the vivid shade of amber you remember, his irises are dyed an icy blue.

Was Fate trying and failing abysmally at handing him subtle hints?

"Oh, and Silver! Can you make Cyan feel welcome? He is still a little nervous."

Sometimes you wish she would just ignore you.

**XxXxX**

"So, what is your name?"

He is trying to be nice, you get that. But that doesn't mean you appreciate his attempts to be friendly. "Why do you care?"

His eyebrow slowly elevates, though his expression remains otherwise deadpan. "I was just … trying to be nice."

As if you hadn't figured that out already. Unfortunately, while his attempt at small talk comes to a halt, his eyes remain upon you. The weight of his gaze causes friction to the sizzling fire within you, sparks clashing and fueling the flames you have always held back but struggled to conceal.

But years of practice have been good to you. Nothing obvious shows on your exterior, only those few subtle opening you seize to vent your anger, like ramming the keys into the stockroom doors with unnecessary roughness and throwing said doors open with more force than needed.

Though turning on the light and being greeted by hundreds of unopened cardboard boxes is the peak of the inferno.

**XxXxX**

It's been a full week since you stashed your uncharged pokégear beneath the couch cushions and the hope that you might actually be able to avoid old "friends" feels more likely each day.

Until _it_ finally happens.

"I told you I would find you. There is no way I am letting you do this to me again, Silver."

You were an hour into your shift when the stomach twisting vision of gravity defying blue hair appeared two feet from you, the countertop your only means of protection from her wrath.

"Silver, what did we do to you? I know you've never been a social-Buneary but we're your friends! Or we _were_ … but we still can be. What are you running away from?"

It's your bad luck it's a slow work day. You never thought you would yearn for those unending lines of impatient customers.

"I am not running away. I just needed time to think," you say semi-honestly, and her face droops. "There is a lot I need to sort out before I can re-start my life, and I'd prefer to do it alone. Like always."

Her lips purse together into a thin line as she contemplates your words. "Are you lying to me? You've never asked for help from anyone, let alone Gold or I, but come on, Silver, this is what you were trying to avoid. Being alone and helpless – "

Those final few words light the fuse.

"What do you know?" you snap, every defensive barrier you possess slamming firmly into place. "Have you thought that I don't ask for your help because I don't like you prying?"

Satisfaction seeps through your body as she bristles.

"I pry because you never offer me anything to go on. I try to help you, but how is that possible if you won't let me?"

"Crystal, it's my life and I don't want your help. What I want is to deal with this on my own. Independence, so I'm _not_ clinging to someone else to do it for me."

She's sympathetic. Her tone and expression are drenched in that single emotion, but it gives off the least desired effect. "Silver – "

"If I wanted you around, don't you think I would have called you? Found some way to contact either of you? Just because I left didn't mean you did the same. If I needed you, I'd have asked for it. I remember what you told me about 'opening up' but that isn't what I do. I left because I have to deal with this on my own. If I ever want or need your help, I will make sure to let you know. Does that make sense?"

You've never cared if you sounded spiteful and now gives little difference. But as her face becomes stricken and her hands clench to fists at her side, there is a drizzle of calmness within you.

All you have ever wanted is to be alone. And free … no longer held back by the mistakes of the past. But despite the few times you tried to explain this, the response was always the same.

Empathy. Words of 'please don't shut yourself away.'

It was all false, all wrong in so many worlds. It fueled your anger and you kept the distance.

"I think … I might never understand you, Silver," she finally says, deflating like a disappointed Jigglypuff. "If it's what you want – what you _need_, then I will leave you alone. But just remember that I'm here for you. Gold, too."

She doesn't give you a chance to reply before she turns and walks away, disappearing down the escalator. Perhaps she doesn't want one, because she knows what you will say. But while you're relieved the conversation has ended, the fire still crackles within you. Frustration you are unable to vent is clogging up inside you.

Without saying a word, you leave your post, unable to bring yourself to care about the consequences. The elevator takes you down to the basement, where you weave through the maze of scaffolding and Machoke at work until you reach the furthest corner. Where no one will hear you when you simply scream.

Your throat becomes raw as you overexert your vocal chords and your lungs ache in protest, but it feels better this way. If not physically, then emotionally and mentally – a fair trade off.

When eventually you tire out, empty of the emotions you had bottled up inside, you simply slump against the wall and allow your knees to give in. You slide down the wall until you're sitting on the ground, hidden from view behind the stacks of squashed cardboard boxes and in the dimmest corner of the basement.

"Having one of those days, hmm? I can empathize with that."

You only notice you have closed your eyes when they instinctively snap open, your vision bleary in the musky lighting the dim bulbs supply.

"You're lucky it's a slow day and Red was able to cover your shift while you embarked on a stress-relieving trek to the basement, of all places."

You've heard that voice only a few times, but you place it instantly. "Cyan?"

Then the dark and blurred colours that make up your vision swim back into place, and you aren't surprised as you are proven correct.

"You startled the Machoke, I had to convince them not to rush upstairs and call for the police to deal with a murder scene," he says conversationally, shrugging his shoulders. "But don't be surprised if one comes over here just to make sure I didn't have a part in that murder."

You roll your eyes at the thought. "Why are you here?"

"I saw you storm away like you really _would_ murder anyone who tried to stop you. And you were having a better day before that girl spoke to you."

He saw.

Of _course_ he saw – you work on the same floor as him. It's so easy to ignore him and pretend he doesn't exist, that you were beginning to forget that he did.

"It's nothing that concerns you."

He doesn't leave. Not that you'd expected him to, but you'd still hoped he would. Most do when you crank up the unfriendly vibes you give off twenty-four-seven.

"Look, you're in a bad place and I have a pretty good hunch why – " You scoff. " – but I've been in bad places, too, and believe me, it isn't easy to get through alone."

"Suddenly you decide to give a shit?"

"I'm not emotionally stunted. I notice things, I just don't get involved if I don't have to. And it's hard for me not to notice the signs of an incoming downward spiral."

"I don't know what your opinion of me is, but I'm not _that_ pathetic and weak." But you are. You know you are. Dishonest isn't something you can be with yourself. "So just get out of here and get back to work before someone decides to fire you for slacking off."

It's an empty thought. He's so good at being invisible that it's unlikely anyone would notice he took an early break.

"Then let them. This isn't a permanent job, anyway." He sits beside you, on the musty, uncomfortable floor. "If you want to talk, I'm here."

"I don't wish to discuss my personal life with a complete stranger."

As true as it may be, he's not pleased with your excuse. "Sometimes talking about things that are troubling you does help in the long run."

It's like an interview. An interrogation. He's _prying_.

"It is none of your business!" you cry, getting increasingly upset the longer he continues to pester you. "So stay the fuck out of this."

He holds his hands up in mock-surrender. "Alright, chill out. No need to be so touchy about it."

"I am _not_ touchy," you fervently deny, but he just laughs dryly. How you wish he would just get up and leave, go back to blending into the furniture and not getting involved where his help was unwanted.

"Is it because of that girl? An ex-girlfriend with a vendetta?" he inquires further, his azure eyes never leaving you.

The mental image of where "Crystal" and "girlfriend" would fit together makes you cringe. "Absolutely not. She is someone I could care less about having in my life, but also someone who doesn't like being ignored."

He whistles quietly, low and drawn-out. "Man, tough break. Some people just don't get the hint."

You could have scoffed at the irony. "And some of them just ignore the fact that they're not wanted."

And someone _else_ might have been a little offended, but his response is to laugh good-naturedly. "Yeah, real bitch when that happens. I, personally, can't stand those kinds of people."

It's bizarre, you think, how you opened up even just a little to this 'complete stranger' and walked away ten minutes later feeling strangely elevated. He never speaks a word after he finally encourages you to return to work and take an early lunch break, the elevator ride proceeding in complete silence.

**XxXxX**

"Not keen on thunderstorms, huh?" His voice follows the crash of lightning that illuminates the dim room, the rumble of thunder in the distance preceding him. "It might be a good idea to stay here for a while. I doubt this storm is going to let up anytime soon."

While he turns and sits down on the countertop, you remain by the window, hypnotized by the ominous black clouds that begin to roll in. Storms have never been something you even remotely enjoyed. Trying to sleep through one was a living nightmare in itself, but while the sound of thunder knows no limit in freaking you out, there is comfort in the thought that you don't have to endure this at night time.

"It doesn't look like we have a choice," you murmur in resignation, "but you aren't going to make a run for it?"

Many more people have taken that option. Looking down at the streets below, you can see dozens fleeing the Department Store, hoods over their heads to shield them from the worst of the rain.

"To Ecruteak City? Not a chance. If the lightning starts a forest fire I'm not thrilled about the idea of getting caught in it."

If there is anything worse than a thunder storm, it's being outside when it hits. You turn away from the window, the dreary city view no longer holding any scrap of interest.

Cyan is no longer looking at you – thank Arceus – but rather at the pokégear in his hands as he rapidly taps several keys; composing a text message, most likely. It's a new sight, and the only marginally entertaining one considering the alternative is gazing at the empty store.

When he eventually snaps it shut, it takes him a few moments to realize he is the focus of your gaze. "Yes … ?"

You abruptly look away. "Nothing."

"It's bad manners to stare then not offer a reason why. You should know; you get pretty touchy whenever you think I'm looking in your direction."

"You're hallucinating. Stress, perhaps."

"I doubt that; I have excellent vision and stable mental health."

You can't even bring yourself to humor him and continue the banter. Instead you roll your eyes and decide that while the rest of the room may be beyond boring, at least it is all incapable of arguing with you.

"Did I just hit a nerve or do you make a habit of dropping out mid-conversation?" He is relentless, and it makes your eye twitch. "Because I'd appreciate a warning or I'll keep up the conversation until I realize how much of an idiot I sound."

"Feel free to start shutting up now."

"Aren't you quite the charmer?"

It's idiotic. _He's_ the idiot who can't take a hint. You literally don't possess the level of energy to try for a response. It's quite the relief when after many more minutes of silence, broken only by the regular bouts of thunder growing ever closer, he finally gets up from the counter top and leaves the room, heading towards the unmoving escalators and ascending to the floor above.

And very much a mood-killer when it turns out he intended to return all along.

"Here," he hands you a to-go cup from the upstairs coffee machine, "consider it an 'I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable' peace-offering."

What an idiot. If it were up to you, then you'd decline the cup or just leave it aside until it cools into brown liquid, but if it will excuse you from a persistent argument, you take the cup from him.

He doesn't look fazed from your lack of gratitude. "Whatever is bothering you, surely it can't be that bad."

"You have no idea what is going on in my life, so stop pretending."

"I might be able to help you," he tries, sounding genuinely soft and sincere. "Why not give it a go? You might be pleasantly surprised."

You can't even look at him, like doing so would make you relent. Or perhaps you are just too stubborn to function right. Does it make a difference?

Peeling back the plastic lid, the hot scent of chocolate envelops your senses and you take a cautious sip. The scalding liquid burns the tip of your tongue but you refrain from showing your discomfort.

"I think this storm will let up soon. It came pretty quick so it'll probably pass in about twenty minutes, tops." He picks off the lid of his own cup, blowing away the initial purge of steam. "I'll keep making small talk until you relent, just so you know."

"Are you that desperate for conversation or are you just bored and like taking sick pleasure in harassing your co-workers?"

"It's called 'trying to be friendly' and you would benefit greatly from it."

"I have done well so far, haven't I?"

"It's never going to be enough. If you don't have people you can fall back on, then it's a sucky existence, believe me."

You slowly lower your cup until it rests on the counter. "Is this leading up to a tragic sob story? Because I never give out sympathy points."

"I wasn't aiming for it. I'm just giving friendly advice, since the hot chocolate isn't working to lighten your mood. You've done the impossible – the stuff never fails. It's science! Look it up." He places his own cup down beside him. "But in all seriousness, I'm just being nice. Unless you would rather I was mean to you? Because I'm not great at that whole 'office rival' thing so you'd be better off antagonizing someone else."

"I said I am fine. Don't get involved."

He doesn't look happy, but his questions come to a halt. The entire floor slips into silence aside from the harsh splatters of raindrops against the windows, the roll of thunder outside and the occasional click of plastic lids on coffee cups.

**XxXxX**

"_Where were you?_"

"_I – _"

"_We were worried about you! I mean, what would you think if I just vanished one day without saying anything?_"

"_You are looking too much into this. We drifted apart, that's it. You went your way, I went mine, and I didn't see why I needed to inform you I was relocating temporarily._"

"_I would have settled for a note, y'know. I'm not asking for a song and dance, just – just **something** to tell me that you were alright – _"

"_Well, I'm fine. Is that it? Are you satisfied now?_"

"_That's not it. Silv, I – _"

**XxXxX**

You never liked big cities much, and Goldenrod was never a first choice for you. Ilex Forest was what attracted you here, the serene cocoon you could lose yourself in for hours on end. The bug-pokémon were docile and rarely attempted to communicate with you, and you wouldn't have had it any other way.

It is a place to think. To simply lose yourself in thoughts that have pestered you since you last came here. But today something is different. Idle thoughts and contemplations mingle with dusted off memories; those you thought had crumbled away long ago and vanished into the wind.

You stand on the bridge that runs across the lake, staring deep into the shadowed depths with disinterest. So consumed by confliction and need, your ears don't register the sound of approaching footsteps until a voice accompanies them.

"You _are_ sure that everything is fine, right?"

You tense immediately, the disruption unwelcome and thoroughly invasive. Without thinking about it, you turn around to face the source of that voice and your heart sinks a little more as your eyes fall upon the person standing there; those azure eyes staring back at you.

"Just … leave me alone," is all you manage, turning away from him and back to the water.

"In this state? No way. You might start thinking that jumping off the bridge is the better option. Things might be bad, but seriously, suicide isn't the answer."

"Suicide – ?" you repeat in bewilderment, before annoyance prickled beneath your skin. "I'm not going to jump! Besides, do you really think a two foot drop into a pond could kill me?"

"Stranger things have happened. Now could you get down from there so I know today won't be one of those days?"

You sigh in frustration, but refrain from snapping back and step away from the wooden railing. "Happy now?"

"Now that you know suicide isn't the way, yes I am," he says, bright as a Sunflora in July. "Feel like talking now I've seen you at your worst?"

"Don't count on it."

The foreign sensation of amazement gushes over you as your eyes refocus to his face. He looks so different, impossibly so now that he stands so close to you. His eyes are notable especially; almond-shaped and soft blue in colour. Innocent … beautiful, even.

"I know I've been pushy, but that's who I am. I try to hard and I get involved where I'm not wanted, but I hardly notice half the time. I'm just trying to be a nice guy, I'm not lulling you into a false sense of security before I decide to drive a truck through your house."

" … or so you say."

He laughs. "I guess you'll just have to trust me."

**XxXxX**

It was a mistake. A huge mistake that makes you sorely regret having ever woken up.

"_Silver, we need to talk_."

But you still try to run, just like always. Grabbing the Tauros by the horns has never been your style. It has always been about avoiding said Tauros until it finally gives up and leaves.

"_If it's something I did, could you just tell me? I can't take this anymore!_"

This is a Tauros that is unbelievably stubborn and you are in plain sight. But still, there is a scrap of hope and you are taking it.

At work, you are safe and the coast is clear, but working beneath the counter all day wears on your nerves. Opening cardboard boxes all day is largely preferable to this; at least you would be hidden, not standing in plain sight for the Tauros to strike.

"Are you _sure_ you don't have a psychopathic ex out for revenge? Because you look like you're waiting to dive out the way of a bullet."

It shouldn't have come as a surprise that Cyan corners you during your lunch break, but somehow nothing fails to make you jump today.

"I can assure you that I don't."

He isn't convinced. "Seriously, it wouldn't kill you to open up a little. I promise, my lips are sealed when it comes to anyone's secrets."

"I have no reason to trust you, so quit trying."

You roll your eyes and sit down in the furthest corner in the cafeteria, allowing a few view of those who use the escalator and a short distance from the fire exit, just in case. He takes the seat opposite you, unintentionally providing subtle and much appreciated concealment.

"I am just having a bad day. As everyone does."

He raises an eyebrow skeptically. "I can't talk for everyone, but 'bad days' don't usually cause people to twitch and jump like someone is hiding in the bushes and aiming a sniper at their head."

"You are looking too much into it. You don't know me at all, remember?"

"I get points for trying, don't I? Just give me something to go on and I'll be able to figure you out. Has someone hurt you, or threatened you? Is that why you're so jumpy?"

You glare down at your hands as they clench into fists against the surface of the table. They're trembling slightly, you can't ignore that. But tensing your body doesn't help quench the unintentional movement.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to – " He pauses, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips as he quickly rethinks. "Silver, I know what it's like to be in a really bad place, but I was lucky enough to have people around me who pulled me out of it. And now, I can't just let things like this slide whenever I see it happening around me. You're obviously upset, even if you won't admit it, and if something happened to make it all spiral downwards, then … well, I'd feel like a complete failure and all that guilt isn't good for anyone."

"You're trying to help me out to ease a potential guilty conscience? To repay your debt to society?" You are being unreasonable, picking at any meager implication you can locate, but you feel marginally better as a result. "No one will hold it against you for walking away right now. I can decide what to do with my life without outer advice."

"Silver, that isn't fair or true. I want to help because it would be awful if you eventually fell to the point that you really did choose suicide as the right answer. Don't you think people would miss you?"

Memories of earlier flush back into your mind and you barely restrain yourself from flinching.

"_Just go_."

"_Silver, I just want to talk – _"

"_We have both done enough of that!_"

"_You might have, but you never give me a chance to explain myself! Would it kill you to tell me why you up and left one day, without even a phone call or a note explaining anything? Was that too much to ask for?_"

"_Don't you think that if I wanted you to know where I was, then I **would** have done those things? I don't need to give you detailed reports of my life._"

"_I'm not asking for that. I just wanted to know you were okay. I thought something had happened to you! Team Rocket returning or – _"

"_You thought I joined them?_"

"_No! You know that I know you wouldn't even **think** of having anything to do with them! I was scared you were hurt, or even dead!_"

"_You would have gotten over it. You adapted well enough now, didn't you?_"

"_So what? You think I wouldn't care if you died? Silv … I missed you so much._"

Fingers snap in front of your face, jolting you violently out of your thoughts.

"Are you in there … ? You completely tuned out for a moment."

You blink rapidly and reality sinks back into place. The generic sounds of tired and hungry shoppers reaches regular volume and the occasional beeps of cash machines provides a repetitive backdrop.

"Silver, you really don't look good." He's watching you with genuine concern pooling in his eyes. "Look, why don't you take the rest of the day off and just chill for a while? I can cover your shift, no problem."

"Not happening," you mumble, just loud enough for him to hear. "If I go home now, then the bills don't get paid."

"Then I'll make sure it doesn't affect your paycheck. I'm not in dire need of the money, so it doesn't inconvenience me. You can walk away now with a guilt-free conscience."

You sigh, shrinking a little into your seat. "I don't need free time right now. Work occupies me and keeps my mind off things I don't want in my head."

His face crinkles slightly. "I don't think that's healthy. I tried to repress a lot of thoughts once, but it all just comes racing back to you at the worst possible time. I'd take the time to sort your thoughts out, if I were you."

"How many times do I have to tell you that I don't need your advice?"

"Oh, is that what you're implying? Because the message isn't going to sink in anytime soon." He's smiling, but it's friendly and without a taunting air. But he says nothing else as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pen, then writes something on a paper napkin before handing it to you. "Here's my number. If you ever decide you want to talk, even if it's three in the morning and you just want to take your mind off an ongoing thunderstorm, then don't hesitate."

It's a neutral offer but you accept it. He looks happy you took the option, even if you never go through with it. If it keeps him from pestering you further, then you can't bring yourself to regret not brushing him off.

**XxXxX**

It's a week later when you finally relent.

The calls have been infrequent, but at least one every other day. He gave you space, even though he was constantly anxious. He never sent messages or left voicemails; he always knew where the line stood.

Maybe it was guilt that caused you to take up the offer and meet him on neutral ground.

"Silv … please say something?"

You can barely look at him, let alone speak his name. But you're there, allowing this meeting to happen, and he should know that's enough to tell that you're willing to hear him out.

"You scared me, okay? Every day you were around, but then I wake up one morning and you're nowhere to be found. I looked all over the region for you, but it was like Deoxys sucked you into a black hole and wasn't planning to give you back."

Did you miss him, too? It's hard to say. You would never admit that you missed anyone, and it's become so difficult to recognize emotion anymore.

"I thought … it was something I did. Yeah, I'm probably paranoid but I was covering every option I could find and the more I thought about it the more it felt like it was my fault you ever left."

Impossible. It should be so easy. It _would_ be easy for someone else, but for you … ?

"Silv, please … yell at me, if you want. Just speak."

Things just aren't normal for you.

"What am I supposed to say?" He perks up a little as you finally speak. Your tone is slow and tired, but it's still your voice. "I had my own reasons for leaving and it wasn't to do with you. I was never in danger, so why say anything? I'm back. Be happy for that."

"Of course I'm happy!" he insists, almost desperately. "I-I wanted you to come back. I wanted to know you were safe, okay? If you don't want to say anything, then fine. Just promise me you won't leave again."

Impossible.

"I can't promise that. I don't know what happens with each day. I just take it as it goes."

His face crumples momentarily before he shakes it off. "It wouldn't kill you to tell me next time, would it? Silv, I'm not gonna be the guy who makes you leave without even knowing it was my fault. If I ever do something wrong then why don't you ever tell me? You always used to."

"People change," is the only reply you have. It's a true fact but it feels like the wrong answer. Still, it's the only one you have. "You can't say either of us are the same as we were when we first met."

He scoffs. "You can say that again. You don't hit me when I try to talk to you, anymore. Not that I'm complaining, it's nice talking to you without risk of physical assault."

You glare, and he laughs good-naturedly. "Man, it's good to see you again. I almost forgot what it was like – "

"Shut it."

**XxXxX**

You don't know what possessed you to take him up on his offer. One moment the world was shaking beneath your feet, but when you found that crumpled napkin patterned with faded ink, something clicked and the earth began to slow down.

"_Hello?_"

You scarcely noticed when you began to dial the number, or that you had even responded to the dazed voice on the other end.

"_ … is your offer still valid?_"

But before you had processed that it had, in fact, happened, you were already on the outskirts of Goldenrod City.

"_Silver, is that you? Did something happen to you?_"

"_N-no, I … I just need to get away … _"

"_Do you want to talk? I have all day free, so time is of no concern._"

"_No … no … _"

"_Then should I come meet you? You live in Goldenrod, right? Or you could come here._"

Somewhere along the line, you absently found yourself agreeing. After you said goodbye, your body slipped into auto-pilot and took you through the busy streets of the city. It was almost like you were watching yourself through a camera, seeing your movements and having no control over them. Yet at the same time, you didn't care that was happening.

**XxXxX**

"Silver."

You followed the directions perfectly, and an hour later you found yourself on the doorstep of a large, rustic manor in the quiet side of Ecruteak City. It was all so serene in comparison to the hustle and bustle of Johto's largest city, so much so it felt like stepping into an entirely different world.

One that shouldn't exist.

"Come on in. I'll make lunch."

You silently accept the offer, stepping into the threshold with barely a look in his direction. It's rude and you should feel bad, but everything is so disconnected right now that it's difficult to care.

If Cyan is bothered by this, he doesn't show it. He leads you through the house, every room and hallway carefully decorated. Family photographs adorn the wood panel walls and the carpet is crisp and clean, with each room arranged so perfectly it's hard to imagine anyone truly lives here.

The kitchen is lovely, but like the rest of the manor, it feels wrong. So perfect, so clean, it doesn't feel like a home.

"Is there anything in particular you want? We could order out if you like – I'll pay."

Food isn't something you feel like bothering with, but you nod, purely to save yourself from having to speak. You watch mutely as he dials the number, occasionally asking for input, even though each response you give is the same.

"Thirty minutes, tops," he says as he hangs up the phone. "So we have time until then. You ready to talk it through?"

No. Though saying so feels harder to admit. Instead, you shrug.

"C'mon, let's go upstairs."

He leads the way and you once again follow him silently. Maybe he regrets asking you over when you seem dedicated to being such a dampener on the mood, but his body language gives away nothing.

His room is enormous. It isn't an exaggeration when you think you could fit your entire apartment in here. Like the rest of the manor it is crisp, clean and everything has its own place. The only thing that separates it from a luxurious hotel room is the various personal touches scattered about the room from whichever angle you view it from.

"Have you never seen a room like this before?" he inquires, having noticed you gawking. He sits down on the end of his bed, leaving more than enough room beside him. "You can sit down, you know."

You do so warily, like moving too fast would trigger a negative implosion, but that vanishes as you sink into the mattress, shocked at how soft the bed is. "No, I've only seen G – a friend's bedroom."

You can't say his name. Not even now.

There is no comment on the matter.

"If it's just company you want, then it's okay, but you'll have to do something to let me know if I'm getting annoying."

Once again, he is being considerate, and for the first time, you're thankful. Less because of the consideration, if you're honest – he could be so infuriating that a Wobbuffet would give up on him for all you care – and more because he is simply there. Someone is here for you and for once, you appreciate it. There is enough mutual trust to put you both at ease.

"I will keep that in mind," is all you say, but from the smile on his face, it's enough.

Those thirty minutes pass in relative comfort. Cyan occasionally speaks up, sharing a short story or an odd piece of trivia, all the while leaving things open for a response, should you choose to give one. You don't, aside from a few nods or shakes of your head, but your attention is unwaveringly upon him, just to reassure that his words aren't falling on deaf ears.

He leaves the room when the doorbell rings and returns minutes later with the pizza box. Now that it's here, the hunger you didn't know was there makes itself known. Your stomach growls and you flush with embarrassment, but Cyan just laughs it off and makes no comment.

"You didn't say much so I had to assume for the most part," he says as he opens the box, "if there is anything you don't like, then tough break~"

It surprises you how much of a simple pleasure it is to laugh a little. To just let a snippet of emotion slip out and make itself known.

**XxXxX**

"Why do you put up with me?"

Your question comes out of the blue and Cyan's response is appropriate, as he lifts his head to look at you from where he lies comfortably on his end of the sofa.

"There are … some people, the least I'd have expected, who bother to get to know me, even if it's perfectly clear I want nothing to do with them. I never understood why."

His forehead creases as he thinks his answer through, moving his arm to prop his chin on the palm of his hand. "Like I told you before, I saw that you were going through a tough time, even if you wouldn't admit it. That was what attracted my attention to you, but it became more than that. We – or I, spoke a little and we got to know each other a little. We didn't trade stories or even have much of a conversation, but it was enough for me to figure that you're a good guy."

"As in, you reached the assumption that there was a poor, misunderstood soul underneath the bitter exterior and made it your life's mission to chip away until that 'good guy' was finally free?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Am I supposed to say yes, or … ?"

You roll your eyes, but it's not in a malicious way. But rather it's somewhat affectionate.

"Hey, I'm not used to having guests over, so excuse me for not being the perfect host." His tone matches the emotion you felt, and a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips. "But I get points for trying, don't I? Any saner, less patient man would have kicked you out for being such a dull guest. Scratch that, they'd never have given you their number, nor have looked twice at you to begin with."

"You know how to make someone feel better," you remark dryly.

"I rest my case~"

You smile discreetly and settle back against the sofa, paying only a small amount of attention to the movie currently playing. "This is where I say thank you. For _not_ being a judgmental bastard even when 'nice' was the last thing I was to you."

"Silver, I just wanted to help. That we ended up becoming friends was a welcome bonus."

"Friends … ?" It's a word you've never used to link anyone to yourself before.

"Well yes. You only exchange phone numbers with someone if you're their friend or you are trying to get them into bed."

You inadvertently jump. "Excuse me?"

He looks quite startled, himself. "Don't start thinking I had an ulterior motive with all this! I swear, it was all strictly platonic."

Your lips press themselves together and you choose to look away, reacquainting your gaze with the flicker of the television. "Yes … of course it was."

"Wait a second … are you offended?"

"That you _aren't_ trying to trick me into bed?"

"You would be _amazed_ at what offends people. To someone else, they would be upset that you apparently don't consider them attractive enough to try and sleep with them, regardless of the fact that they were perfectly happy – overjoyed, even, to have a nice, platonic relationship with someone their own age without lust threatening to screw it up."

"I'm not crazy about relationships."

"So you _won't_ go all bitchy on me for not trying to seduce you?" He gives you a lopsided smile. "If you are a man of your word, then I feel better already. If not, then it was good while it lasted."

He can be impossible sometimes. So why is there a smile teasing the corners of your lips?

"I have never been able to call someone my friend. Not really … "

He is listening now that you decide to talk. For once he isn't invasive, but so much more patient, allowing you room to speak without interjecting.

"There was one person who came as close as anyone has ever been, but I didn't once think of him as anything but an annoyance. Just an irritating Yanma that won't leave you alone, no matter how many times you swat it."

He smirks a little at the thought. "There are people like that out in the world. It's all about deciding whether or not they fit in your life."

"As in 'if you can't tolerate them, then kick them out of sight'?"

"If it works for you. But don't expect a glowing reputation if it becomes a recurring habit. You give a little, you let a little."

"That was sort of my plan. If people saw that I wanted nothing to do with them, then they would stay away from me. It worked so well until Gold came along."

He quirks an eyebrow. _Shit_. You quickly notice your slip up. "Gold? The annoying Yanma is called Gold?" he inquired. You look away, berating yourself for unwillingly giving away a nugget of information. "That is actually great! Your names even go together – what are the odds?"

"Just don't preach that it was 'meant to be'."

"Maybe it was. You two could be platonic soul mates; destined to be together, but not in a romantic way. I envy those people. It must be so nice having that without romance threatening to screw your friendship up."

"_Silv, don't push me away._"

"_Why have you ever wanted anything to do with me? When have I ever been remotely interesting to you?_"

"**_You_**_ stalked **me**, remember? I was on the road to discovery and you kept digging pitfalls because of your obsession with getting stronger and bringing down Team Rocket._"

"_It was pure bad luck that I couldn't live my life without shaking you off my trail. Don't twist a unfortunate series of coincidences to make me out to be the obsessive stalker._"

"_Seemed that way to me. I feared for a number of firsts: my first kiss, my first time – _"

"_I am not some demented rapist, Gold!_"

"_And I was meant to know that how … ?_"

"_Urgh … why do I bother putting up with you?_"

"_Because I am just **that** irresistible? You tell me; you were the stalker._"

"_Gold, for once, be serious._"

"_ … Silv, enough with this. I just want to know why you left. And don't give me that crap about 'moving on' and 'finding yourself' because you've never been into any of that, so it ain't gonna work._"

"_I had my reasons. Isn't that enough? You don't chronicle your day-to-day life for my benefit. I am **not** trying to imply anything with that, by the way._"

"_I scared you away, didn't I?_"

"_ … _"

"_ … I thought as much._"

"_Gold – _"

"_No, it's okay. I wasn't the most tactful person when it came to that, but who is? I mean … it's hard enough trying to say something like that, but trying to say it to **you**? I was scared you'd bite me or scratch my eyes out._"

"_I'd have enough self-control to have dragged you into the middle of nowhere, first. Going to jail for murder has never been high on my list._"

"_I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you off or make you uncomfortable, it's just … I panicked! It all came out in a rush and I kept trying to make it better, but everything that I said made everything all that much worse, and I-I don't know!_"

"_It wasn't that._"

"_Then why … ?_"

Cool fingers graze your cheek, luring you away from painful memories and back into the spacious living room in a manor on the rich side of Ecruteak City.

"You did it again," Cyan says as he retracts his hand, "do you always space out when someone is talking to you? Oh, is it because I'm boring you? I can quit talking if it'd help?"

"N-no, don't be stupid. There is just a lot on my mind."

He props his elbow against the side of the sofa, allowing him to hoist himself up to eye-level. "Does this mean you are ready to speak up? Properly, this time; no tuning out and leaving me hanging."

You sigh. "Why are you so desperate to hear my depressing life story? Are you just trying to find out how many ways my existence can be miserable? Because you will be here for a long time."

"I told you – it helps to talk about it. Or just say it out loud can be enough for some people. You won't be hiding from your problems anymore, and if you can admit it to yourself then that is the first step in making a difference and conquering your fears."

"I'm not scared – "

"Silver, I think you are. Just because you aren't aware of your fears doesn't mean they don't exist."

"Then maybe I'm not ready to talk. Not yet, not ever."

He smiles sadly. "Then at least remember that you aren't alone. It doesn't make you a weakling to ask for help now and then, it just makes you a stubborn fool to try and deal with it all alone."

"I've managed so far, haven't I? Why change a perfectly good system?"

"You aren't scared of a little change, are you? Mix things up a bit. Your problem might be that you're too uptight; you have no room for fun or freedom in your life because you don't let yourself have any. Loosen up and go out on the town once in a while. Break the usual routine and do something spontaneous."

"I'll start drinking coffee instead of tea," you remark dryly.

He rolls his eyes. "Very funny. But if it works for you, then give me one reason why not?"

"Fine, then. What would you call 'spontaneous'? I am open to suggestions, so fire away."

"Okay." He sits up straight, eyes scanning the room for inspiration. "Have you ever gotten drunk in your life? Better yet, have you ever drunk alcohol before?"

A violent shudder races through you that you fail to suppress. You look away sharply as Cyan turns back.

"Is that a no … ?" he inquires tentatively.

"It means … I have my reasons."

Maybe this is the point where you make your leave. Run. Again. To avoid speaking up.

You close your eyes, breathing steadily and slowly. The air seems so much thicker, like you're inhaling syrup into your lungs. It makes your throat feel sticky, heavy from the sickening sweet sensation, and raw from the sloppy tang.

You're gasping, shaking and struggling to drag oxygen into your body. Coughing and spluttering as you attempt to heave the sticky goo that clings to the inside of your lungs.

"Here!" He thrusts a paper bag under your nose, his other hand gripping your shoulder. "Breathe into this."

Reacting subconsciously, you did as he instructed. You close your eyes tightly, clouding out four of your senses, paying attention only to the crackle of the paper bag as you deeply inhale and exhale. Your heart is kicking up a riot in your chest and your hands are trembling too much for you to hold the bag yourself, but don't manage not to let it bother you.

One step at a time.

It takes several minutes for you to calm down, and only when your breathing is steady does Cyan gently remove the paper bag, allowing you to breathe without it. The air is much cooler now, but no longer heavy.

"Do you feel better now?" he asks softly, causing you to open your eyes. Instantly they meet his, and it's mesmerizing.

The way he smiles is so familiar. The resemblance between the two was uncanny, the largest differences being their eye colours and differing hairstyles. Even his skin tone was more or less the same.

"Y-yeah," you stammer, leaning back against the sofa, suddenly drained of energy. Though calmer now, your heart still refuses to settle on a reasonable speed.

He is still watching you; the weight of his gaze forms a soft pressure against your cheek. You remain silent, hoping he will take that hint, and relief pours through your body as his lips remain connected.

Does he understand, or does he simply know you don't wish to speak? Either way, he is silent and doesn't attempt to break it.

"I-I'm sorry." Your voice is foreign to your ears, that you doubt it belongs to you. "I should go – " But your attempt to stand up is met with a wave of dizziness that pushes you back down. It's hard to fight against, and you succumb to its hold with pained groan.

"Don't be silly, you'll barely make it to the front door," he says, his face etched with concern. "Here, I'll get you a glass of water."

You don't have time to protest before he's gone, returning seconds later with a clear glass of water. He lightly presses it to your lips, knowing your hands are shaking too much to hold it yourself.

"Try and drink a little."

It takes a while for you to reacquaint yourself with basic functions, such as moving your lips and swallowing the water. Ten minutes later the glass is empty, and Cyan carefully moves it away and places it down on the table.

"Do you feel any better?"

Talking feels like too much effort; all you can do is nod.

"I don't think it was just the thought of drinking that did that to you." He's right on the target, but you neither confirm nor deny it. "This is where I would usually say that I'm here, but if you were anything like I was then you don't want to talk about it."

You scoff lightly.

"Silver, believe it or not, I know what it's like. Half the time you want someone, but you won't admit it, not even to yourself. The other half, you want to hide away and not let the emotions touch you."

Please stop.

"It doesn't work. It never works. You'll be happier facing your problems and getting them over with; starting out fresh with a clean slate and nothing wearing on your mind."

Stop … stop it. Now.

It hurts so much. The answer is so simple on paper but a complex maze in reality. Does he think you don't want it? That you're bathing in this masochistic paradise out of choice?

Idiot. Fucking idiot.

You tell him as much, expecting anger in response but receiving none.

"I could be. But I'm trying, aren't I?" he says, his hand never moving from your shoulder. "However it feels, at least there is one person who isn't willing to give up on you."

Stop …

"It doesn't have to be now, or tomorrow, but whenever you're ready to break through this. I'll be here for you. Always."

You have _never_ wanted to hit somebody so bad. The urge boils within you like scalding acid in your stomach, but your muscles are on strike. Sapped of energy and unwilling to try. Your own body is betraying you.

"Keep that in mind."

Why is it so hard to fight anymore? You're so tired, and it hurts so much …

"Silver … ?"

You rest your head on his shoulder, oblivious to how his eyebrows elevate in surprise. Right now, he's so warm and you're so tired …

… maybe he was right …

He twitches his shoulder. "Hey, sleepy head … " he murmurs, his voice a soft melody to your ears. "A bed would be more comfortable, you know. You're free to use the guest room if you're that tired."

A bed. That sounds nice. You must have nodded because he is helping you up, his arm coiling firmly around your waist as he drapes yours over his shoulder. He hoists you up, doing most of the work as your legs feel like wet rope, but it doesn't seem to bother him as much as you'd think.

Weaving through the maze of doors and hallways you can't keep track of, ascending up the staircase and entering another room, it's not long before he lowers you onto a bed, just as soft as his own.

"You can rest as long as you want," he says, brushing stray strands of hair from your eyes. "I'll be here when you wake up."

He turns to leave, and that's when a shock of electricity lifts you onto your feet, your body your own again.

"Cyan … " you breath, too quiet to your own ears, but he must have heard. He stops and turns, curiosity lacing his eyes. After minutes of self-induced paralysis, it feels foreign to move again of your own will. Difficult at first, like you are relearning to walk, but the motion sets in and you're standing in front of him.

"You don't have a temperature, do you?" he asks, and his hand brushes against your forehead, his fingers providing cool relief to your heated skin.

A small smile teases your lips as a soft sigh slips past them.

"You feel warm … "

He has no idea.

There is a fire in your abdomen. It rages with an emotion you've never touched upon, crackles with need and urges you forward. Your heart pumps lava through your veins, struggling to break free as it magnetizes your heart towards his, with only your ribs keeping it from grinding its way out of your chest.

You fall forward, the movement sloppy and uncoordinated, but warm arms envelop you in a strong embrace. "Silver … ?" The name on his lips is your name, and the revelation makes you smile.

"Cyan?" You return the favour, and his eyes looking directly into yours. They're so nice; a vivid icy blue that should make your insides freeze and send violent shivers cursing through your body, but they are fuel to the flames, granting you the strength you need to stand up fully.

He is right there, so attractive and far from repulsed by your close proximity.

You don't even think it through. Leaning forward, you brush your lips against his.

His lips are soft, just as you'd suspected. You hear him gasp, but you don't care. With force great enough to bruise, you keep your lips locked onto his. Passion battles with fury, but for once, none of it matters.

The moments of passion are few until Cyan pulls away, breaking the kiss, but restricting it there. He's watching you with wariness and concern. "Silver, what – "

"Kiss me." It's a demand, pure and simple, and you won't accept no for an answer. You don't even get one before your lips are on his again, the flames within you urging you forward to claim him.

This time, he reciprocates, tentatively, but it's happening, nonetheless. His lips are firm and demanding, as restricted as his response may be, until once again he pulls away, icy blue eyes looking deeply into mercury.

"Are you sure, Silver?" His voice comes out in a husky pant. "Completely sure that you want this?"

There are no words you can string together to create an adequate response, so you let the surge of passion guide you, pressing your lips against his, allowing yourself to melt into his embrace as his arms tighten around you.

He no longer holds back. One hand instantly buries itself into your hair, not gently threaded into deep red locks, but fisting them together and tugging, _hard_. It shocks you, catching you off guard enough to gasp against his lips, but mostly by how much you like it.

His other hand coils around your waist to pull you flush against him, and a quiet moan slips between your lips and against his. The entirely of his torso is pressed against your own, and you don't even think before your arms come up and wrap around his neck.

It must have been minutes, but it feels like less than a cluster of seconds, before his lips pull away from yours, eliciting a whimper as a sudden chill break through you at the partial loss of contact. Your mind is whirling with confusion, lust, need, sheer desire for _more_, but fear lingers on the sidelines. It all comes down to that you have absolutely no idea what you are doing.

It was your first ever kiss, and you worry you hadn't done it right. Did you disappoint Cyan? Is there mockery dancing in his eyes?

But that twinge of emotion is smothered when you feel his hips gyrating against yours, slowly and experimentally, and your eyes snap open, greeted by the icy blue you had dreaded seeing just moments ago.

Darkened by and broiling with what you could only call lust, those blue eyes are mesmerizing, overwhelming … should you really be looking directly into them?

It's too much, yet not enough. You feel you shouldn't want this, but you _do_.

There is pressure in your abdomen, tightly coiling to the point of pain, and you know right then and there that there is no hope of stopping yourself, not even preventing yourself from thrusting your hips to meet his. Not that you needed to, as Cyan begins to grind right back, meeting your movements in the most delicious and erotic dance of your life.

It's incredible and indescribable and you can't believe it's happening so fast.

"F-fuck," you curse beneath your breath, pressing your forehead against his, never once looking away from those sensual eyes. He knows what he can do to you. He must – there is no other explanation.

How did this happen? From the moment you saw him … something clicked when mercury irises met blue. The image burned into your mind, fused to every mental image and warping your sense of reality.

The burn of the richest alcohol can compare to his lips, and lust rages within you like an awakened addiction. You growl deep within your throat as his lips smother yours, tantalizingly soft and sinfully good, undiluted need spiking through hot flesh as he then nips down your jawline, trailing fleeting kisses across your skin before biting sharply at your ear.

It's bad. It's wrong. But you want more.

Fuck the consequences.

You let his hand claw at your clothes, pulling and ripping at the dark material, tossing them aside to fall forgotten. He's not claiming all the power, here, and you grasp at the hem of his shirt and tug it upwards, determined to rid his body of it whether he likes it or not.

He moves his arms, relenting his hold upon you to lift them above his head and let you complete your task. Immediately, your heart skips wildly as you trail your gaze towards. He had always looked so slim when swathed in dark clothing, but the vision before you proves otherwise. A toned torso and well-built arms, like his upper body had been carefully sculpted by Arceus' own will.

Confidence you didn't know you possessed is what lets you move, tentatively reaching one hand out to graze your fingertips against the honey-colored skin. His hands are on your hips, rubbing small circles with his thumbs as though he were soothing a sore spot on your body. But he only fuels the flames beneath your skin and you synchronize in movement, moving forward as he pulls you closer, and soon it's your bare skin upon his, nothing shielding you from his touch.

You claw at his back, digging your nails deep into heated skin to cause pain, and his lips are pressed against the crook of your neck, parting slightly as a groan reverberated from deep within his throat. He maneuvers you backwards, moving the both of you towards the bed. The edge of it informs you that you have run out of space, but Cyan gives one push and you fall backwards, landing with the soft duvet beneath you and his body on top of you as he once again presses his bare chest against yours.

Soon his hands are fiddling with the waistband of your jeans, swiftly undoing the button and pulling down the zip. Your stomach clenches as one hand slips into your boxers, but confliction over whether you should protest is soothed as he grasps your erection.

A loud moan, rebelling and drawn-out, escapes your throat. Your eyelids are heavy and soon flutter shut, the loss of one sense enhancing the rest. He moves his hand slowly, stroking carefully, considerate and allowing you to get used to it. A slow burn, painful yet addicting, spreads through you, the coiling pressure in your stomach tightening further, the sensation distracting you as he sheds you of your jeans and throws them aside, unwanted. But it's not enough to keep you from noticing when his other hand also reaches into your boxers, and he presses his index finger against your entrance.

A gasp of alarm escapes you, and instinctively, you try to sit up. "W-what are y-you … ?" You're shocked at how hard it is to speak one sentence uninterrupted, but it pales in comparison to when he slowly pushes his finger inside you.

Could he have warned you, first?!

But he doesn't stop. He pushes the digit deeper, as though testing to see how far he could go. It's all so new, so overwhelming, and so terrifying, but you want this. You want to feel this way … to feel something good and banish the misery.

He pushes a second finger inside you, and your grip on his shoulders becomes tight enough to bruise. You want this, but it's pure torture. You feel so aroused it seems enough to kill you then and there.

His hands continue their work, pleasuring you entirely and causing your back to arch and another moan to escape you, but it becomes a whimper as his hands abandon you to remove your final piece of clothing and leave you naked.

Vulnerable.

He is still partially clothes, and the thought infuriates you. Finding the button on his jeans, you undo it before pulling the denim off and discarding it, allowing his boxers to follow. His own erection brushes against yours, setting your nerves alight.

Too much … but not enough …

His hands rest on your butt, squeezing gently, slowly and delicately rubbing circles into your skin as his knee comes to rest between your legs, nudging them apart.

You cry out as he enters you, allowing you to feel complete. It's burning, it's passionate, and driven by lust. Your legs coil around his hips, unrelenting as they grind against you.

There is a mask you wear, stoic and controlled, perfectly molded and never shifting. But it has been torn away, thrown aside and left unwanted.

Tonight, you're letting go. He is without mercy, thrusting deep and striking hard. You moan, scream, lose your final grip on control … arching your back into his, your broken cry escapes you as it all crashes down, that sinful pleasure ravaging you from within.

"Let go … "

Those lips are smirking at you, icy blue eyes seducing mercury, temptations dancing within cyan depths as he cups your cheek. "This doesn't need to happen," he whispers, his fingers toying with strands of red hair, "you know how to make this all better."

You purse your lips and want to turn away, but those hands are like granite on your skin.

_Trapped._

"Just one word … and I can make it go away. You can have peace of mind."

You dare to look into cyan eyes, knowing regret is not far behind.

_Ensnared._

"You know what you want. Stop fighting yourself on this." He leans close, his lips avoiding yours to brush against the lobe of your ear. "Just let go … "

His body radiates warmth, slick with his sweat and your own. Icy blue eyes are upon your own, and your heart stutters.

There is lava in your veins. Your body arches against your will, fervently resisting your mind's wishes to revel in the delicious pleasure he offers.

Disconnected, your mind is now barely your own, the reason for your existence is tethered to seeking him. Holding him, possessing him, claiming him …

His name is on your lips, the sharp sweetness of the toxin upon the tip of your tongue.

"Say it," he croons, his grip transgressing to pain.

You throw your head back as you groan helplessly. Exposed. Vulnerable. "C … c – " It's right there, dancing upon your lips with a vicious tang and yearning to escape your mouth like venom in your tongue. "C-Cy … Cyan."

Poisonous.

He smirks, so compelling and promising danger. "There, that wasn't so hard."

You want to glare, to dig your nails into his scalp, to bruise his lips with your own. But motivation melts away as he rolls his hips, ripping away your self-control as a moan slips from your throat.

His motions repeat, infuriatingly slow.

So much, so soon … it's hopeless … it's an addiction …

Euphoria consumes you, steals you away and envelops you within a cocoon of tranquility. The pain, the craving, the desperation that was etched upon your face melts away with one final strike to that spot within you, overcome with bliss.

Your back arches, and a guttural sound escapes you … it could have been any stretch of time from seconds to years, but it's perfect.

When you lie back, exhausted but sated, that quiet sigh of satisfaction is the only sound that matters. His body lying atop yours like a protective shield is the only sensation that matters when you descend from your high.

It's a mantra playing on permanent repeat in your head. His voice, and his only, breathing into your mind and offering sweet promises.

"_You know I'm always here, as long as you allow it_."

"_No matter how it seems, you'll never be alone._"

"_Just let go, Silver_ … "

"_I will always protect you. No one ever hurts the ones I love. I promise._"

**XxXxX**

* * *

**Author's Note:** I actually tried my hand at dipping into second-person. Isn't that interesting. But for now ... back to Palletshipping! Which is also nearly done. Gah!


End file.
